Irwin Shaw - Nightwork

One thing I was sure of. I was on its side of the fence now, whoever it might turn out to be, and I was playing by its rules. In one moment in the tag end of a cold winter night, I had become an outlaw who could look only to himself for safety.

Rule one was simple. I could not sit still. I would have to keep moving, disappear. New York was a big city and there were undoubtedly thousands of people hiding out in it successfully for years, but the men who even now were probably on my trail would have my name, my age, a description of my appearance, could, without too much trouble and with a minimum of cunning, discover where I had gone to college, where I had worked before, what my family connections were. Lucky me, I thought, I am not married, there are no children, neither my brothers nor my sister have the faintest notion of where I am. Still, in New York, there was always the chance of running into someone I knew, who would somehow be overheard saying the wrong thing to the wrong man.

And just this very morning there was the bellboy. I had made my first mistake there. He would remember me. And from the look of him, he would sell his sister for a twenty-dollar bill. And the bookie in the hotel. Mistake number two. I could easily imagine what sort of connections he had.

I didn’t know what I was eventually going to do with the money now lying in the hush of the vault, but I certainly intended to enjoy it. And I wouldn’t enjoy it in New York. I had always wanted to travel, and now traveling would be both a pleasure and a necessity.

Luxuriously, I lit a cigar and leaned back in my chair and thought of all the places I would like to see. Europe. The words London, Paris, Rome rang pleasantly in my mind.

But before I could cross the ocean I had things to do, people to see, closer to home. First I would have to get a passport. I had never needed one before, but I was going to need one now. I knew I could get it at the State Department office in New York, but whoever might be looking for me could very well figure out that that would be the first place I would go to and could be there waiting for me. It was an outside chance but I was in no mood to take even that much of a chance.

Tomorrow, I decided, I would go to Washington. By bus. I looked at my watch. It was nearly three o’clock. The two men who had confronted Drusack that morning would be approaching the St Augustine, eager to ask questions and no doubt with the means to compel answers. I flicked the ashes off the end of my cigar and smiled gently. Why, this is the best day I’ve had in years, I thought.

I paid my bill and left the restaurant, found a small photographer’s shop and sat for passport photos. The photographer told me that they would be ready at five-thirty, and I spent the time watching a French movie. I might as well start getting used to the sound of the language, I thought, as I settled comfortably in my seat, admiring the views of the bridges across the Seine.

When I got back to my hotel with the photographs in my pocket (I looked boyish), it was nearly six o’clock. I remembered the bookie and went into the bar to look for him. The bookie was in a corner, alone, sitting at a table, drinking a glass of milk.

“How’d I do?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” the bookie said.

“No. Honest.”

“You won,” the bookie said. The silver dollar had been a reliable omen. Speak again, Oracle. My debt to my man at the Hotel St Augustine was reduced by sixty dollars. All-in-all a useful afternoon’s work.

The bookie did not look happy. “You came in by a length and a half. Next time tell me where you get your information from. And that little shit, Morris. You had to let him in on it. That’s what I call adding insult to injury.”

“I’m a friend of the working man,” I said.

“Working man,” the bookie snorted. “Let me give you a piece of advice, brother, about that particular working man. Don’t leave your wallet where he can spot it. Or even your false teeth.” He took a few envelopes out of his pocket, shuffled through them, gave me one and put the rest back in his pocket. “Thirty-six hundred bucks,” the bookie said. “Count it.”

I put the envelope away. “No need,” I said. “You look like an honest man.”

“Yeah.” The bookie sipped at his milk.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I can only stand so much milk,” the bookie said. He belched.

“You’re in the wrong business for a man with a bad stomach,” I said.

“You can say that again. You want to bet on the hockey game tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not really a gambling man. So long, pal.”

The bookie didn’t say anything.

I went over to the bar and had a Scotch and soda, then went out into the lobby. Morris, the bellboy, was standing near the front desk. “I hear you hit it big,” he said.

“Not so big,” I said airily. “Still, it wasn’t a bad day’s work. Did you take my tip?”

“No,” the bellboy said. He was a man who lied for the sheer pleasure of lying. “I was too busy on the floors.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Better luck next time.”

I had a steak for dinner in the hotel dining room, and another cigar with the coffee and brandy and then went up to my room, undressed, and got into bed. I slept without dreaming for twelve hours and woke up with the sun streaming into the room. I hadn’t slept that well since I was a small boy.

In the morning I packed my bags and carried them myself to the elevator. I didn’t want to have any more conversations with Morris, the bellboy. I checked out, paying with some of the money I had won on the second race at Hialeah. Under the hotel canopy I looked around carefully. There was nobody as far as I could see who was waiting for me or who might follow me. I got into a cab and drove to the bus terminal where I could board a bus to Washington. Nobody would dream of looking in a bus terminal for a man who had just stolen a hundred thousand dollars.

I tried the Hotel Mayflower first. As long as I was in Washington I thought I might as well take the best of what the city had to offer. But the hotel was full, the man at the desk told me. He gave me the impression that in this center of power one had to be elected to a room by a large constituency, or at least appointed by the President. I resolved to buy a new overcoat. Still, he was polite enough to suggest a hotel about a mile away. It usually had rooms, he said. He said it the way he might have said of an acquaintance that he usually wore soiled shirts.

He turned out to be right. The building was new, all chrome and bright paint and looked like a motel on any highway in America, but there were vacancies. I registered under my own name. In this city, I felt, I didn’t have to go to extreme lengths to remain anonymous.

Remembering what I had heard about crime in the streets of the capital, I prudently put my wallet in the hotel’s vault, keeping out only a hundred dollars for the day’s expenses.

Avoid the chambers of the mighty. Danger lurks at their doorsteps. The Saturday night pistol lays down the final law.

The last time I had been in Washington had been when I’d flown a charter of Republicans down from Vermont for the inaugural of Richard Nixon in 1969. There had been a lot of drinking among the Republicans on the plane, and I had spent a good part of the flight arguing with a drunken Vermont State Senator who had been a B-17 pilot during World War II and who wanted to be allowed to fly the plane after we crossed Philadelphia. I hadn’t gone to the Inaugural or to the ball for which the Republicans had found me a ticket. At that time I considered myself a Democrat. I didn’t know what I considered myself now.